


The Sport of Kings

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-18
Updated: 2005-10-18
Packaged: 2019-02-11 20:00:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle





	The Sport of Kings

“The trick is,” Crowley said, “to not let the ball slip behind the paddle. See?”

Aziraphale squinted at the blip-bleeping screen. He was ever hesitant to harbor interest in Crowley’s technological whims, though Crowley had sounded so very _pleased_ with himself when he rang to boast of this new achievement that Aziraphale had been unable to say no, and so he went round to Crowley’s flat with only a cursory comment to the declining state of the daylight.

The video console itself was rather unimpressive. Yes, the whites and blacks shone the brighter before Crowley’s crouching chrome monolith of a television, but Aziraphale was offhandedly chagrined that Crowley had soldiered on with the wall-to-wall shag carpeting and vermillion drapes, and the bulky black machine seemed to suffer a similar sort of contact-embarrassment.

Also: as far as he was able to decipher, the game contained neither ball nor paddle, and no amount of garish, flashing boxes could have convinced him otherwise.

Aziraphale fumbled with the control-panel’s tiny knob, and after the game had merrily reset itself for the third time, he sighed, “I’m afraid I’ve not the temperament, my dear.”

“Don’t be silly. _Everyone_ can play. Everyone. It’s catching on in America like you wouldn’t believe.”

“And people there actually _enjoy_ it?”

“Naturally not.” Crowley laughed shortly, and flashed a deliberate smile. “But when they start, they can’t stop. They don’t even need a physical opponent: there’s an option to play against the computer.”

“Where’s the excitement in an invisible enemy?” Aziraphale asked, not looking away. Another ricocheting ball was enveloped in inky oblivion; he bit his lip.

“Exactly. It’s _impossible_ to beat the computer.”

“There must be a way, surely.”

Crowley’s reflection on the glaring screen shook its head. “Well,” he said, after a moment, and set down his control-panel. “What do you think?”

“Absolutely appalling.” Aziraphale tightened his grip on his own sweat-slick panel.

It was well past midnight when he came to suspect the inherent truth of the computer’s trajectorial prowess, and nearly dawn when he found that the carpet was wont to chafe when one rested upon it in the same position for more than five hours; Crowley had fallen asleep on the sofa not long after Aziraphale’s five-thousandth game, and it was only the sudden flash of white-blue light and the dying moan of what might have once been a video console that startled him awake.


End file.
